


Illusion of Choice

by Engineer104



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopian, Classism, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Jean and Mikasa are best friends, M/M, POV First Person, Slow Build, background springles, mostly angst, past Eremin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens in a world where the population is divided into two groups, chosen to join each from a young age, separate but for a few exceptions.  The first option:  become an Inventor, join the elite, use your mind.  The second “choice”:  live as a Carpenter and build whatever the Inventors dream up.</p>
<p>Jean is a Carpenter, and while he isn’t malcontent about it, he isn’t happy either.  But then a new opportunity becomes apparent:  leaving his fellow Carpenters to work with the Inventors.</p>
<p>It’s the chance of a lifetime, a chance for a safer life beyond the factory, but Jean just might get more than he bargained for.</p>
<p>(And no one even wants to think about the mysterious third option. . .)</p>
<p>Or, if you like:  Jean's life is flipped on its head after his coworker suffers a near-deadly accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illusion of Choice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably going to regret posting this in the morning since I barely proofread and my sister didn't beta the whole thing and...
> 
> I hope my writing isn't too inconsistent.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! =]
> 
> If you have questions or wanna chat, I'm a tumblr peep: stereotypedebunker.tumblr.com

It’s an easy enough life, I suppose.  I don’t have to make any big decisions, unless you count what I’m eating for dinner as life-changing.

I have a roof over my head, food for my belly, and a job to occupy my days and on occasion my nights.  I can have fun every so often, spend time with my friends outside of work and even watch a movie.  I visit my mom sometimes when I have two days off in a row.  I have a stash of paper I use for my sketches when I’m in the right mindset.  There’s nothing to complain about.

Until it becomes glaringly obvious that working in a factory is detrimental to your health.

* * *

The train rattles along the tracks on its path out of the city.  I sit on one of the plastic seats, eyes closed, my forehead resting against the cool glass window, my stomach stirring unpleasantly.  I shift slightly and crack my eyes open when my seat jolts with the force of someone sitting beside me.

“Hello, Jean,” the person says politely.

I pick my head up to look at them, see long, black hair tied back in a ponytail, thin eyes in a perfectly proportioned, pale face.  “Mikasa,” I greet her with a nod, then return to keeping the contents of my dinner inside my stomach.

“Motion sickness?” she asks.  Her tone is as monotonous as ever, but the words are concerned.

“Yeah,” I admit, clutching my belly as the train goes over an uneven bit of track.

“Eren isn’t working tonight?” she wonders after a few silent minutes.

I open my eyes again, staring at her reflection in the window.  “He never works nights,” I tell her.  “The foreman has a soft spot for him, remember?”

“Right,” Mikasa says.  I watch as her reflection bites its lip.  “So it’s just us tonight?”

“Reiner’s around somewhere,” I reply with a slight shrug.

She doesn’t say anything in response to that, so we once more fall into a companionable silence.  Or, she is silent and I grimace, attempting to ignore the cramps and nausea.

“You should get that checked out,” Mikasa breaks in as the train pulls into the station.

I sigh in relief, already feeling better with the lesser speed and less violent shaking.  But I glance at Mikasa.  “Why?” I ask.  “I can handle it fine.”

“What if it’s something worse than motion sickness?” she wonders.

I don’t reply as we stand up together; in fact, I don’t say anything, ignoring the feeling of her worried eyes boring into the back of my head, until we disembark the train.  And once I spot Reiner heading towards us, I quickly insist, “It’s _just_ motion sickness.”

She looks like she wants to press the issue, but doesn’t as Reiner is finally within earshot; Mikasa, for all her protectiveness (for all her friends, but mostly Eren), respects my privacy.  Most of our friends don’t know; in fact, I only started feeling ill a few months ago.

“Where did you go?” Reiner demands once he stands before us.

“I sat in the front,” I tell him.  The front of the train is gentler, but not by much, on my stomach, and I usually avoid the back at all costs.

He eyes me for a moment, then shrugs.  “Next time, don’t just disappear on me, Jean,” he says with a slight chuckle, clapping me on the shoulder and causing me to flinch.  “I thought you were kidnapped or something.”

I narrow my eyes at him, then glance at Mikasa, who gazes back levelly.  Not for the first time, I wonder why my friends worry so much.

Then again, if Mikasa is the mother of our group of friends, Reiner is definitely the father.  They worry about everyone, not just me.

“Relax, Reiner,” I reassure him, “no one can sneak up on me.”

This time, Reiner laughs and Mikasa cracks a slight smile.  “Yeah, you’re too jumpy,” he says.  He then waves his hand, heading for the station exit.  “Enough chatting; time for work.”

Mikasa and I follow him, she with purpose and me dragging my feet slightly.  The beginning of a twelve-hour graveyard shift is never much fun.

It’s a short walk to the factory, since the station largely serves it, but it’s long enough that I start sweating in the thick uniform, the air muggy as it hangs overhead.  I tug on my collar, hating the way it unpleasantly rubs against my skin.

“I wish we lived further north,” I complain.

Reiner shoots a look over his shoulder at me.  “It’s summer,” he says.  “If it was winter and we lived up north, you’d wish you lived _here_.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s probably right.  Still, it shouldn’t be allowed to feel this hot when the sun isn’t even baking the earth.

There are others on their way to the factory, walking along the same path for the start of a shift, while still more workers move in the opposite direction, having just clocked out from their shift.  Sasha waves at us cheerfully as she passes by, until she moves her hand to cover a huge yawn that splits her face, causing Reiner to chuckle.

“Good night, Sasha,” he calls to her.

“Mm, ‘night,” she replies simply.

Connie and Ymir are a few paces behind her, and it looks like they’re arguing about something, although that’s nothing new.  I clear my throat loudly once we’re level with them, and they glance at me.

“Hey, horseface,” Ymir greets me with a wry smirk.

“Yeah, hey,” I say, irritable at the nickname.

Connie smiles and places a hand on his shoulder.  “Levi’s in a bad mood,” he says, a cautious lilt to his voice.  “Watch out.”

“Levi’s _always_ in a bad mood,” I retort, shrugging his hand away while Mikasa nods in agreement at my words.

“Today’s even worse for some reason,” Ymir says with a frown, hands on her hips.  She looks unusually pale, I notice, freckles standing out against yellow skin, like she’s about to pass out.

I don’t mention it, though; she’d kick me in the balls if I did, and Krista will probably take care of her once she gets back home anyway.

“Well, we shouldn’t give him a reason to cite us,” Reiner says pragmatically.  He plows on along the path, waving to someone he knows and I don’t.  He then looks over his shoulder, pointedly glancing between Mikasa and me to get us to follow.

“See you later,” I mutter to Connie as I jog to catch up to Reiner, Mikasa with me.

We enter the factory boundaries and move quickly towards the warehouse.  I glance at my watch, which reads 8:05 PM.  “Fuck, we’re late after all,” I tell Reiner and Mikasa.

“I guess we’ll be testing Levi’s questionable patience then,” Reiner says with a sigh.

Mikasa shrugs, and I grimace as we walk into the worker storeroom.  It’s almost empty, except for a few stragglers from the last shift and a few other late employees for the next.  I open my locker and pull out hardhat, goggles, earplugs, and belt, and behind me I hear Reiner and Mikasa doing the same.

I settle the bright yellow hat on my head, leaving the plugs dangling around my neck, and place the goggles over my face.  The rubber pinches my skin unpleasantly, but by now I’m used to it.  I tie on my tool belt, then turn to face my friends.

Mikasa is already finished prepping, already walking towards the actual factory entrance to clock in, while Reiner bends over, tying his bootlace.  When he stands up, he smiles and says, “We’d better go before Levi actually spots us, huh?”

I nod, my stomach churning with residual nausea from the train ride, and follow him as he walks in the direction of the assembly line.  I punch my timecard in the doorway, flinching, as usual, when a loud _buzz_ signals that the machine knows I’m here.

As soon as I cross the threshold between the locker room and the interior of the factory, the sound of machinery and reactors assaults my ears and makes my bones vibrate.  I immediately stuff the earplugs into my ears, which actually doesn’t help much.

I look around and notice that Mikasa and Reiner are nowhere to be seen, probably at their designated stations.  Reiner works in operations, easily the safest part of the factory, the lucky bastard, while Mikasa is on the assembly line (of sorts) paired with the largest reactor.  I, on the other hand, work the job most detrimental to human health:  clean-up.

Just as I draw up to the group of workers gathered close to the exit stream of the reactor, Thomas, a man with blond hair and sideburns looks over his shoulder at me.  “You’re late, Jean,” he observes, but I have to read his lips over the din around us and the plugs in my ears.

“No fucking way,” I mutter sarcastically as I draw level with him.

Beside Thomas, a boy – well, technically a man – with dark hair glances at me as well.  He raises his hand in a wave.  I wave back, even though I don’t recognize him; I assume that he’s new, recently been designated a Carpenter after taking the Career Placement Exam.

Good, because the cleaning team has been understaffed lately.

A harsh, high-pitched bell rings out over the rumbling of the reactor, signaling the end of the last eight-hour cycle and the beginning of the two-hour cool down.  Slowly, the cacophony diminishes, and I watch as the gauge needles on the reactor’s pipes flicker to the bottom, to zero.

I pull out my earplugs as everyone else does the same, but jump at the astonishingly sharp squealing of wheels behind me.  I turn around to see Levi, the foreman, pushing a cart laden with a large drum labeled as “Caustic” and other cleaning implements.

“Get cleaning,” he says gruffly, stepping away from the cart.  Then, he catches sight of me and frowns.  “Kirstein, you were late today.”

“Uh, yes,” I admit cautiously.

He stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and adds, “Don’t make a habit of it.”  He turns to leave before I can say anything else.

Considering it was only my first time being tardy, I might’ve had a few choice words for him; however, that _is_ my boss and even if we both know I’m here since I was assigned the job, he scares me shitless.  Besides, considering Connie’s cautionary words and Levi’s reputation, I got off easy.

“So it’s gonna have to be spotless,” I hear Thomas explain.  When I look at him, he’s facing the new kid, who looks a little worried as he eyes the other workers tugging on bright yellow, rubber gloves.

“Just don’t get the caustic on yourself,” I pitch in, and the two men look over at me.  “Trust me, it burns.”  I roll up my left sleeve to show them the pink scar tissue on my arm.

“I, uh, I’ll be careful,” the newbie says nervously.

“So who’re you?” I wonder as I pull on my own gloves.

“Nack Tius,” he says with a slight smile, although he still looks pale.

“Just took your test?”

“Yeah.”  His smile turns into a fully-fledged grin.  “Just passed a month ago.”

I grunt in response, figuring that maybe he and I have different definitions of “passed” if he thinks “passing” gets him into a pathetic, blue-collar, Carpenter job.

“The reactor’s finished draining,” Thomas says, tapping me lightly on the shoulder.

I swallow, anxious as I always am before the simple cleaning procedure, and nod.  I follow Thomas into the reactor, Nack a few steps behind.

The reactor is huge, several tons of space currently just filled with air, a giant steel shell usually filled with whatever shit the Inventors use to synthesize painkillers (odds are, not even Levi knows what that “shit” even is).  It’s also tall enough that a few workers have to rappel down into it from the opening at the top, several stories up.

“Volunteers to clean up top?” Thomas wonders, looking around at the group of ten.

I scowl at the floor, knowing that his eyes have landed on me, as always; I don’t understand why he insists that _I_ participate in the upstairs work when I studiously avoid it.

“I’ll go,” Nack mumbles, while a few others do as well.  I look up in time to see him chasing after the usual volunteers, back out of the reactor to the stairs that wrap around it on the outside.

And then we begin properly, spraying the cleaning solution on the side, watching the bubbles as the base reacts with whatever remains after draining, and wiping away the residue into a series of buckets.  It’s nasty work, and the reactor is hot and insulated, and several times I have to stop myself from wiping my brow with my corrosive liquid-soaked gloves, unless I want a burn matching the one on my arm decorating my forehead.

After about an hour of grunt work, I hear a shout from above.  I look up to see one of the dangling cleaners swinging violently, waving his arms frantically, but he can’t seem to grab purchase on the slick sides of the reactor.  Then, as if in slow motion, I watch as the cable keeping him safe snaps.

He falls. . .

. . . and lands with a dull thud at the base of the reactor.

He lies still, and I and a few coworkers approach slowly.  When I see Nack’s slack-jawed face, I gasp, taking note of the awkward angle of both of his legs.  I squat, remove my gloves, and hold my bare fingertips over his lips.  I feel a slight breath against my skin and sigh in relief, but it still doesn’t look good.

I hear retreating footsteps and shouts seeking Levi’s attention.  A chill crawls up my spine, and even though I’m not a doctor, I know that the odds of Nack literally walking away from this incident are not favorable.

“Fucking safety inspector didn’t get everything,” I note mutinously to no one and everyone.

_Oh, God, what if he’s bad enough for the Third Option?_

* * *

 

After Nack’s mishap, the factory shuts down all operations for a week.

Good thing too, because the incident turned me into a quivering pile of jelly.

A thousand times, the sight of his body lying, broken, on the reactor floor plays in my head.  If I close my eyes, I see him being taken away on a stretcher, all the other workers and Levi watching grimly.

I think how easily it could’ve been someone else, how it might’ve been me if, for once, I had volunteered to clean the top.  Or even Eren or Ymir, both of whom work clean-up. . .

There is no doubt in my mind anymore that the factory is a smoking death trap, and the thought of returning at the end of the week, when the “No Accidents” calendar is reset, has me hovering between a bored stupor and panic.

It doesn’t help that my mother calls on the third day.

I’m sitting on my bed, leaning back against the worn-out headboard, tightly gripping a pencil in my left hand and dragging its tip across paper, attempting to sketch something, anything, but a mutilated, Third Option-worthy body.  When I hear the phone ring throughout the small house, I don’t move, figuring that one of the others will answer, and I rarely receive calls anyway.

Someone answers, and I jump, drawing a long, involuntary mark across the page as a result, when Eren shouts, “Jean!  Your mom’s on the phone!”

I sigh and set my sketchbook on my bed.  I swing my legs over the side and stand, ignoring the sudden dizziness that threatens to knock me down.  I walk into the kitchen, my pace slightly faster than leisure, and see Eren with the phone to his ear, a shit-eating grin on his face as he listens to something.

“Oh, he’s here, Mrs. Kirstein,” he then says once his green eyes land on me.  He bids my mother goodbye, holds the phone out to me, and mouths _Your mom is great._

I roll my eyes as I accept the phone.  “Hello?” I say into the receiver.

“Jean?” she says.  “Is that you?”  Her voice is filled with static and worry.

“Eren didn’t lie to you, Mom,” I reply, a little exasperated already.

“Oh, thank God.  I heard about what happened at Trost.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine,” I reassure her.  I don’t want to talk about the incident, and I also desperately want to know what she could’ve possibly said to put Eren, who, still smiling, leans against the counter eavesdropping, into such a good mood.

“Did you see it happen?” my mom shoots off.  “Was it someone you know?  Are they getting the Thi—“

“Mom, _calm down_ ,” I interrupt.  I sigh and explain, “Yeah, I saw it, but I had only met the guy that day since it was his first.”  I pinch my eyes shut and swallow.  “And I don’t know if he’ll get the Third Option.”

“How bad—“

“ _Mom!_ ” I almost shout.  “Can we not talk about it?”  I’m at the edge of panic thanks to her interrogation.

“All right,” she relents, her tone reluctant.

I sigh with relief, a slight grin forming on my face.  As plain fucking _nosy_ as my mother is, I like talking to her; it soothes me, as if I’m still a child, living under the same roof as my parents, bright hopeful outlook on the future, studying for the Career Placement Exam, hoping to avoid the dull shithole that is Carpenter-dom. . .

“So have you got a girlfriend yet?” my mom asks, pulling me out of my nostalgia.

I grimace.  “If I _had_ found a girlfriend, I would’ve told you that first,” I tell her.  Eren snickers from nearby, and I shoot him a glare.  “Anyway, what were you telling Eren before I got here?”

“A, uh, well. . .”

I frown, knowing fully that my mother is as blunt and unapologetic as I am.  “Mom, were you making fun of me?”

She laughs, which is relieving until she says, “I told him a dirty joke that I heard from a friend.”

I almost choke on my saliva and fall into a coughing fit.  I hold the phone away from my face as I catch my breath, but I can still hear her saying, “Jean?  Are you still there?”

“Here,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant and not at all as if I’m blushing at the mortification of hearing that my mother, _of all people,_ shared a sexual joke with my housemate, _of all people_.

“Do you want to hear it?” she asks.

“ _Fuck no_ ,” I reply immediately.

“Jean, don’t swear,” she chides, like she did when I still lived with her.  Oddly enough, I learned all of my swear words from _her_. . .  “Are you going to visit this week?”

“No,” I admit.  I toy with the hem of my shirt, feeling a little guilty that I have all this free time but refuse to see my mother.  I dig through my head for an excuse that won’t let on how frightening the factory situation was, but to my surprise, she doesn’t ask me why.

She instead wonders, “Jean, love, did you ever think of applying for a transfer?”  There’s concern in her voice, the sort that only mothers and Mikasas have.

“I can’t.”

“Are you sure?  Because I remember—“

“They do things differently now,” I cut in.  “The only way you can get a transfer is for some official to assign it to you.”

“I see. . .”  I hear her sigh.  “It’s just that the textile factory here in Stohess is so much safer than the chemical plant in Trost.”

I’m tempted to call bullshit, since there was a rumor spreading a few years ago that a worker got scalped by one of the machines there, but I just say, “I’m not gonna get a transfer, Mom.”

“All right,” she says, “but it would’ve at least been nice to have you nearby.”

I can’t help but smile slightly.  “Yeah, it’s always nice to be near family.”

* * *

 

Levi calls me in on the very first shift after the factory is cleared to be restarted, and I spend the whole night before my morning work hours not sleeping.

Instead, I fantasize about being an Inventor, working in a cozy lab or workshop without any dangerous machinery of titanic proportions.  Or maybe I would’ve been a doctor (although I’ve been told my bedside manner is shitty), or a lawyer, or a politician.

Okay, I’m an awful liar, so politicking would’ve been beyond farfetched.

The entire night, I diligently avoid thinking about Nack Tius, whose face in my mind’s eye has become mine.

All too soon, morning sunlight shines through my window and I hear Connie stirring in the other bed.  I sit up slowly, rubbing the tiredness that never translated into sleep from my eyes, and put my feet on the floor.

Connie is already standing by then, extending his arms behind his back.  “God, I’m glad we’re going back,” he says, voice too chipper for this early in the morning.  “I was so fucking _bored_ this week.”

So was I, but thanks to my rampant paranoia, I would sooner choose boredom over work.  Even so, I stand up and walk past him without a word, into the hall and straight to the kitchen.  I open several cabinets until I find the instant coffee (misplaced, probably by Connie); I pull it out, grab a mug from another cabinet, fill it with water, and set it in the microwave.  Once I turn it on, I watch the mug spin on the turntable, nodding off until I hear beeping.  I pull out the mug, biting my lip against the pain of holding hot glass, and spoon in more instant coffee grounds than necessary.

As I mix, I hear footsteps behind me, and Connie’s voice says, “We ought to invest in an actual coffee machine.”

“Can’t afford it, dumbass,” I reply, setting the spoon in the sink and picking up the mug.  I tentatively take a sip and burn my tongue in the process.

“Which is why we’ll all chip in,” Connie explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  “You, me, Eren, Reiner.  The girls if they want to use the same one.”

“They don’t sell coffee machines in Carpenter stores,” I tell him with a slight shrug.  “It’s exclusively Inventor shit.  And you don’t even _drink_ coffee.”

“Nah, it’s not,” Connie denies emphatically.  “And yes, I do too drink coffee.”

I roll my eyes but don’t contradict him.  Instead, I turn to face him and see that he’s already dressed, his eyes bright.  I raise my drink to my lips once more and grimace at the bitterness, realizing I forgot to add sugar.

“Train leaves at seven,” Connie says, eyeing my pajamas.

“I can be dressed in ten minutes,” I tell him.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” he replies cheerfully as he grabs a bowl and a box of cereal from the pantry.

I don’t dignify him with a response; instead, I opt to down the rest of my nasty coffee, sugarless, rinse the now-empty mug, and retreat to my room to get dressed.

A week was long enough that my uniform no longer smells sickly sweet like the chemicals used at the factory, but I can still imagine the scent sticking to the fabric as I pull it on.  I ignore the roiling of my stomach while I brush my teeth and relieve my bladder, and then return to the kitchen.

Connie is standing at the sink, drinking water straight from the faucet.

I cross my arms over my chest.  “We have cups, you know,” I point out.

He stands up straight, turns off the water, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  “That’s quicker,” he says with a shrug.

“Whatever,” I reply before heading to the door.

* * *

 

The next few days go by without incident.

I work one day and then two nights in a row, and Connie and Sasha both take the exact three shifts as me.  Mikasa sits beside me on the train before and after one of them, eyeballing me worriedly while I ignore my surroundings and clutch my stomach.

I talk to my mother less often than Eren does.

When I can’t sleep, I sketch absentmindedly from memory.  A lizard I spotted outside, Mikasa’s flawless profile, the vase of now-dead flowers that Sasha gave to Connie on their anniversary.  Anything to avoid daydreaming or nightmaring about the accident, anything to not dwell on my mortality.

And, of course, Levi is still insufferable, as is further proven on my fourth shift after the incident, because as soon as I enter the worker storeroom, I hear my name.

“Kirstein!  Ackerman!”  I turn around, looking in the direction of the voice, and see Levi standing in the doorway to his office, staring at me with his empty eyes and furrowed brow.  “My office, both of you,” he adds, as if it isn’t clear enough.

I swallow, nervous as always whenever Levi directly addresses me, and walk towards him, ignoring the curious glances from my fellow Carpenters, ignoring Mikasa walking beside me.  Levi stands aside, waiting for us to enter the office ahead of him, then joins us, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He gestures for us to sit in the two wooden chairs across from his wooden desk.  We do, Mikasa slouching slightly and me sitting up straight, tense, as Levi takes his own, also wooden, seat.  As I glance around the office, which I’ve only actually been inside once, I wonder not for the first time why Levi likes to decorate so much with _wood_ , as even a picture frame on his desk and the pencil holder are made of tree meat.

Wait, a _picture frame_?  I never would’ve pegged Levi as the sentimental type.  I now desperately want to see its contents.

“You’re both being transferred,” the foreman says immediately.

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate; beside me, Mikasa shifts and I can imagine that she doesn’t like this news.  Transfers aren’t uncommon, but they almost always require a new house assignment as well, which would mean she and Eren will be separated.

I still don’t know what the source of her attachment to him is, what happened when they were kids, but I know it’s important enough to make her dread being away from him for long.  And transfers are typically permanent.

“The details are in here,” Levi continues, passing us each a packet of papers.  “Read them over in your own time; you’ll start your new jobs in a week, but until then, you still work here.”

“What about moving?” I ask before he can dismiss us.

He raises an eyebrow.  “What’s wrong with where you live now?” he inquires.

Mikasa sags in relief, but I frown.  There’s something strange here, especially since the factory we currently work in is the only one that we can reach by the train. . .  The next closest factory is definitely too far for a regular commute.

“I can see you have questions, Kirstein,” Levi observes, scrutinizing me.  “I promise that the packet will answer them.  Now, go, before I start docking minutes from your lunch break.”

I stand up quickly and Mikasa follows suit.  Together, we depart from Levi’s office, back into the now-empty storeroom.  “Where do you think we’re being transferred to?” I ask her as I quickly open my locker and stuff the papers Levi gave me inside.  I’m burning with curiosity, but I prize my lunch break enough not to sate it at the moment.

“I don’t care,” Mikasa admits.  “As long as I’m not moved away from Eren, it’s okay.”

“I, uh, right,” I say.  I shut my locker and pinch my eyes shut at a sudden headache.  I press the heels of my hands to my sealed eyes and turn to lean against the lockers.

I don’t realize that Mikasa is in front of me until she speaks, her voice close:  “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head but otherwise don’t move, don’t say anything.  This is the worst migraine I’ve ever had; it’s difficult to grasp any one thought.  The little bit of light streaming through the cracks in my eyelids are dazzling.

There are warm hands encircling my wrists, and I jump and recoil from them, removing my own hands away from my eyes and opening my lids.  Mikasa, letting go of my arms, has a slight, self-satisfied smirk; I scowl when I realize that my simply looking up is the desired outcome of her sudden touch.

“What?” I say.  My headache has subsided slightly, nothing more than a dull throb behind my eyes.

“Let’s go to work,” she replies, nodding towards the door.

“Yeah,” I agree, straightening up and following her to the factory floor, ignoring the familiar feeling of dread at the danger ahead of us.

* * *

 

Eleven days without accidents.  Eleven days since Nack Tius was hauled away, unconscious, blood dripping from the gash in his thigh to the floor.

Eleven days since my own mortality started staring me in the face.

I keep my forehead pressed against the cool window again as I return home from my shift, watching the white-and-brown blur of the cotton fields between the town and the factory.  My curiosity about my transfer, the packet for which I clutch with both hands, has been pushed aside in favor of trying to control my debilitating motion sickness.

Two nights ago, when returning home, I actually managed to vomit.  It was the first time that it happened, and I felt immensely better afterwards.  Too bad it didn’t last.

Connie sits beside me, although he’s silent, listening to Sasha, seated in front of us, chatting animatedly, detailing the last time she visited her parents.  I listen too, zoning out every few minutes when a particularly strong wave of nausea captures my attention.

“. . .and Dad’s allowed to retire soon, which is good since he has that stiff finger.  Mama was so worried that he would take the Third Option if he couldn’t.”

Connie inputs quietly, “My mom took the third option.”

“Oh?” Sasha says.  “How come?”

“She got cancer,” he replies, subdued.

My interest is immediately piqued and I lift my head away from the window to better look at my seatmate.  “Is she doing better now?” I wonder.

Connie shrugs.  “I don’t know,” he admits with a frown.  “I haven’t heard from her since she left.”

“Huh,” I say.  The mysterious, elusive Third Option, reserved for those that couldn’t work as either Inventor or Carpenter, a place that Nack Tius would likely go, a place that I can’t help but dread for myself should I require it one day, even if my dread is mostly fear of the unknown.

What if my transfer is the Third Option?  What if whoever decided to transfer me thinks my motion sickness is debilitating enough?

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, staring at the blank first page of the information packet, agitation replacing my dizziness.

Connie and Sasha eye me, concerned.  “You okay, Jean?” Sasha asks.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I mutter ironically, wishing I could read on a train without getting violently ill.  It occurs to me that only Mikasa knows about my transfer.

My heart is racing, and I almost tear the packet in my panic.

“Jean?” Sasha repeats, her voice soft.

I shake my head slightly and try to calm myself.  _Relax, Mikasa got the same transfer._   But how do I know?  We both got transfers, but that doesn’t mean they’re the exact same.  _Neither of you is moving house, so what are the odds that they_ are _different?_   But they could be.  _How would Levi’s bosses even_ know _about your motion sickness anyway?_

I got me there, I realize.

“I’m fine,” I finally tell Sasha after several moments.  And, for once, I feel completely calm, no tension, no nausea, no headache, no panic; it’s rare, especially for the environment that is the train.  I look up at her and offer her a slight smile.

Her eyes widen.

“What?” I say, scowling.

She giggles.  “Now _that’s_ more like it,” she says, reaching across the back of her seat and ruffling my hair.

I bat her hand away.  “What the hell are you talking about, Sasha?”

“You smiled,” Connie notes, glancing at me.  “It’s creepy when you smile.”

“ _You’re_ creepy,” I retort childishly, rolling my eyes as Connie and Sasha exchange grins.

The train finally pulls into the station, and I’m quick to hop off, my two companions struggling to keep up with me as I all but sprint home, ready to peruse the pages in my hands.

I almost trip over a young woman pushing a baby in a stroller, stumble past a group of teenagers heading towards school, and finally make it to the short walkway that leads to the house I share with Connie, Reiner, and Eren.

I know Eren is home, since he has the day off, so I just knock on the door obnoxiously, not caring that he probably wants to sleep in.  But it takes him too long, so I just dig in my pockets for my keys, pull them out, and unlock the door myself, just in time to admit Connie as well.

“Why are you in such a hurry, man?” he wonders once we’re inside.

“Tired,” I mumble.  It’s only a half-truth, though, and fairly dishonest since my whole body is humming with adrenaline-fueled anticipation.  “Did Sasha go home?”

He nods, then looks at me skeptically.

I sigh, then admit, “I got a transfer.”  I wave the packet in his direction, watching as his eyes widen in shock.

“No way,” he says quietly, staring at the pages.  I can’t tell how he feels about the news, what’s going through his head.

“I’m not moving though,” I add, “and I don’t know where I’m going, exactly.”

“Oh, good,” Connie says, relief on his face.  “If you left, then we’d end up with some loser fresh out of his test, grumbling about how he wanted to be an Inventor.”

I snicker.  “You were just like that, dude,” I point out.

“Yeah, but I said that stuff ironically.”

“Sure you did,” I scoff.

“Whatever,” he says with a shrug, moving towards the hall that leads to the bedrooms.  “Good night, or morning.”

“Sweet dreams,” I tell him, then I turn away from him and walk into the kitchen.  I make myself breakfast, or maybe it’s more like dinner, out of two eggs and two slices of toast.  Meanwhile, Eren meanders into the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt.

“What the fuck, Jean,” he says as he rubs at his eyes.  “You have a key, don’t you?”

“And I used it,” I say, once more reaching into my pocket and brandishing the key, “since I have a deadbeat housemate that can’t bother to open the door when someone knocks.”

Eren, obviously not awake enough to argue, simply shrugs and shuffles back out of the kitchen.  I simply build my egg sandwich and sit at the table, the transfer papers in front of me.

At first, I ignore them in favor of food; I’m ravenous since I haven’t eaten since my last break at the factory about four hours ago, and I only ingested a pathetic green apple.  When I’m through eating, I push my plate to the side, brush the crumbs off my hands, and pick up the packet.

It only takes five minutes of perusal for shock to hit me.

I’m getting a promotion.

_I’m getting a fucking promotion._

I’m working with Inventors.

_I’m working with fucking Inventors._

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, congrats! Marco actually appears next chapter, so there's that.
> 
> Can you tell that I wrote this in pieces?
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!
> 
> (I hope my characterization was consistent...)


End file.
